


somethin' like this

by foundCarcosa



Category: True Detective
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, Marty's taking Rust home to convalesce, whether he likes it or not. Except, why would Rust complain at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	somethin' like this

The doc would have told him, _You know, you’re not out of the water yet,_ and Rust knew it. It didn’t matter; he still would have left. In the hospital, the television droned and the walls did not speak, and there was no colour to taunt his vision, nothing but the narrow bed and the indifferent beeping of cold machines, and he slept, and slept, and did not dream.  
{ _When Marty came, boisterous and blustery, Rust was blinded. He’d never known how vibrant his partner was. Or, maybe his vision had always been dim and monochrome, ever since he forgot what colour his daughter’s favourite dress had been._ }

And in his apartment, the walls were silent like the halls of the dead, and nothing but ghosts waited for him there, so he did not object when Marty pulled into his own driveway, even though Rust could tell Marty was just waiting for him to say something so he could argue.

"Yeah, you might not like it, you solitary bastard," Marty said with a grunt as he hefted Rust’s arm over his shoulders without giving the slight, scruffy man a chance to protest. "But you’re stayin’ here with me. Least until you’re healed up. Because I said so."

"Does that mean I have to eat your cooking, too?" Rust retorted, trying not to shuffle his way up the walk.  
{ _To mow this lawn, and sit in this kitchen, forever, and ever…_ }

"Better believe it, buddy," Marty cackled, kicking the door shut behind them.

\-----------

That was then. Now, the fever snaked through Rust’s aching limbs and curled around his brain, hot tendrils picking the locks on memory vaults, and Rust slept even more than he had in the hospital, despite or perhaps because of the drone of the television and the rustic peace of the house. He slept and dreamed, lurid glue-huffer dreams like he’d had when he was Crash, and awakening seemed like being tossed bodily into an alien planet where everything was needle-sharp pain and the sun blazed hot and demanding on his skin.

"Dreams still bad?" Marty would ask, and a muscle would twitch in Rust’s gaunt cheek, and Marty would nod and grunt sagely and then ask him what he wanted for dinner.  
Rust didn’t talk about them. He took it with pained grace, as the suffering due to him. His yoke had never been easy, nor his burden light, and that was all right, because he could bear it. Marty couldn’t, and that was all right too, because Rust would always be there.

Marty fell asleep in the armchair once, next to Rust who drowsed on the couch, eyes focusing and unfocusing and then succumbing to blackness before slowly opening and refocusing again. The ceiling swirled ominously. He closed his eyes, and didn’t reopen them.

When he awoke the next morning, Marty had brought coffee, strong and black, and was shaking his head. “Can’t believe I just fell out like that. Ain’t done that since…”

"I dreamed about…" Rust interrupted, swirling his hand around in a vague circle somewhere above his head. " _You_ know. Heard your voice in it, this time.”

"What’d I say? Somethin’ like _'hurry your ass up and recover, you're stinkin' up my living room',_ right?” Marty cackled to himself, sinking back into the armchair and scratching his belly with comfortable contentment.

"Yeah," Rust replied, staring into the depths of the steaming coffee. "Somethin’ like that, yeah."

{ _"Hurry up, man. You gotta heal up, get back on your feet. We got life to live, y’hear? I mean, we old as shit, now, and I ‘spect your guts ain’t never gonna be the same, and I’m already startin’ to feel a little twinge ‘round my heart when I eat them big double bacon burgers down at the diner, but… we got some years in us yet, ol’ boy. And I ain’t lettin’ you leave again. No, sir. Not this time."_ }

\-----------

"Lookin’ good there," Marty commented, some weeks later. Rust leaned against the door frame, staring out at the world; feeling no connection to it, but no separation, either. His world was established already — this house, and Marty Hart.

"You speculatin’ about the state of my lawn again? I just mowed it last week." Marty feigned indignation, puffing out his chest as he approached, a crooked grin creeping across his face.

"Fuck your lawn," Rust said mildly, "I’m thinkin’ about going back home."

"What?" Marty’s voice thinned, the grin curdling. "Aw, I mean… you don’t gotta, I’m sayin’…"

"Marty—"

"Look, I mean, I’m not sayin’ anything except that, uh…" Marty grasped at the air, as if trying to find the logical argument that didn’t exist. Rust’s lips twitched as he looked askance at his partner, who was starting to redden.

"Marty," he said again, louder this time, and Marty sucked his teeth and dropped his hands and started to snap, _"What,_ man?” and Rust chuckled.

"I was fuckin’ with you. Wanted to see what you said."

"God _damnit,_ Rust! You…” Marty spluttered, definitely reddening this time. “…You fuckin’… son of a…”

"Yeah. Love you too, y’ fuckin’ lummox. What’s for breakfast?"


End file.
